“A rat’s dick?” I choke on a laugh.

He rolls his eyes. “Did you tell her you love her, you moron?”

Behind us, Coach yells for guys to huddle up.

The sad truth embeds itself like glass in my throat. “It might not be a matter of me loving her.”

I regret the words as soon as I let them out. It’s easier to pretend that I walked away. Admitting that I might not be the man Chess ultimately wants hurts so much I can’t breathe past it.

Jake stares me down. “They don’t call it risk because it’s safe. Tell her anyway.”

He gives me a slap on the shoulder pads and walks away.

I follow, my mind set. I’m going to lead my guys and win this game. I don’t need Chess to succeed at football. Whether she’s in my life or not, I am who I am on the field.

It’s off the field that I need her. And I’m going to find my girl and prove that to her too.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chess

 

* * *

 

James and Jamie take me to an Irish Pub in lower Manhattan. It’s cozy and wonderfully warm, especially after walking six blocks in the icy wind to get there.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” I say rubbing my hands together.

“We should have taken the subway.” Jamie’s nose is bright pink.

“The walk was bracing,” James insists. “And you two are wimps.”

Jamie takes off her fogging glasses and wipes them. “Pretty sure someone was whining about frozen balls in danger of falling off and shattering on the pavement.”

“That was a vivid description,” I add. “Maybe you should check your pants, James. Make sure everything is accounted for.”

“My balls have already checked in.” James unwraps his scarf and leads us through the crowd. “And they’re demanding a drink.”

“You talk to your balls?” I ask with a laugh.

“All guys do, Chess. Have I taught you nothing?”

“I thought they talked to their dicks.”

“They’re kind of a package deal, darling.”

We settle into a booth by an empty stage. James snuggles up next to Jamie, and I’m left by myself on the other side. Again comes the horrible, internal coldness running along my side. I don’t mind sitting alone. I’ve done it for years. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not whole. I’m missing a part of myself. And it’s annoying. Another person can’t complete me. I do that for myself.

“So who has final say,” Jamie asks James. “Balls or dick?”

James settles back into the booth and rubs his beard in contemplation. “Hmm. Dick can definitely act alone. He’s been known to perk up and want to investigate a situation, while Balls are shriveling and shouting ‘run away, fool!’”

“That’s because balls have a sense of self-preservation,” I say, shrugging out of my coat. “Dick is basically a brainless knobhead.”

Jamie laughs.

“True,” James says. “But as to the ruler of my package?

“Let me guess,” I put in. “Mr. Hand?”

“Har. That might have been the case a few months ago, but now the supreme ruler is Jamie, so she really shouldn’t be laughing at poor Dick.”

Jamie flushes pink and leans into him. “Aw, that’s so sweet.”

I suppose it is, in a weird way. Doesn’t stop me from wanting leave the table so I don’t have to watch them cuddle.

You had that, you moron. And you had to think about “things.”

It really sucks when your conscience starts to hate you.

“I would have whispered sweet dick jokes in your ear too,” Finn’s voice says in my head.

“I know you would have. You never could pass up an opportunity to talk about your junk.”

“Neither could you, Chester. I’m pretty sure you’re obsessed with my junk.”

It really, really sucks when you start having conversations with a man who isn’t there.

The waitress comes up to take our order. “We’re having a special on Guinness tonight. And the chef’s specialty of the evening is steak and kidney pie.”

“I’ll have a Harp and a pie,” I tell her.

“Guinness for me,” James says. “And the fish and chips.”

“I’ll have the pie too,” Jamie orders. “Oh, and a white wine.”

“What did I tell you?” Finn’s ghost whispers in my ear. “Women like to order white wine. Even when they’re in a pub.”

“Isn’t there a lamp you could go haunt?”

“I’m a quarterback, Chess, not a genie.”

“What’s that smile about?” James asks me, cutting into the ridiculous and probably unhealthy conversation going on in my head.

“The impending promise of hot food,” I lie.

He looks at me as if he knows better, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything.

Our drinks arrive and, while we wait for our food, a band comes out and begins to play. It’s a full Irish band, complete with a flute player, two fiddlers, and even an accordionist. And they’re good.

Soon, the bar is filled with lively music and people tapping along.

The singer is a young woman with curly hair and a voice like a pixie.

We eat our food as they play.

And it is almost perfect, soaking up good music and good food with good friends. I can see myself in the future, having more nights like this. I will have a good life. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. And a sense of peace comes over me. I’ll be okay.

No matter what I do, I’ll be okay. But is okay enough?

The band finishes a song and the singer accepts a pint of Guinness from a waitress. She takes a long drink before setting it down on a stool by her side. “I love the film Some Kind of Wonderful,” she says in the mic.

The crowd whistles their approval.

She nods, her curls bouncing. “The end is especially lovely. You remember it?”

As one, we all shout, “You look good wearing my future!”

Laughter rings through the small space.

“Aye, so romantic.” The singer grabs her tambourine. “We’re going to play a little homage to Some Kind of Wonderful and Lick the Tins, who did a brilliant cover for the flick.”